


— with melting wax and loosened strings

by oaseas



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Artist Iwaizumi Hajime, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Icarus reference upon Icarus reference, Light Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining Iwaizumi Hajime, Post-Seijoh, Time-skip content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:41:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27570931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oaseas/pseuds/oaseas
Summary: "If Oikawa is Hajime’s home — is Japan — then this room is his shrine. And Oikawa stands in the centre of it, eyes wide and mouth agape."Hajime is a visual artist. He's been in love with Oikawa for such a long time that his hands know every curve and bend to Oikawa's figure.  But now, with thousands of kilometres and hours between them, Iwaizumi is starting to forget Oikawa's features. It's enough to send him spiralling.Or, 'Devotion, (2020, colourised)'.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 65
Kudos: 335





	— with melting wax and loosened strings

Summer comes fast to California. It breaches over the horizon one early July morning, leaving Hajime’s neck sweaty and the studio room warm. It’s not yet unbearable, but as Hajime dips his hands into the lukewarm water of his bucket and finds it relieving, he knows this summer will be rough. 

The clay is familiar underneath his hands. The path his fingers make as they mold and shape it, equally so. Bit by bit, Oikawa’s strong jaw reveals itself beneath his palm. By lunch, Hajime has gotten the shape of Oikawa’s head perfect, the tilt to his ears just right, but the nose. The damned nose. Frustrated, Hajime scowls and swipes a wrist over his forehead, sweat coming away in a thin sheen. 

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. No real progress today. No matter. He’s used to this by now, after all. 

The classroom he’s sequestered himself away in is busier now, with the hustle and bustle of a campus life he’s not yet used to, even during their break. For a room so full of people, he’s never felt so lonely. Hajime glances around the room, wondering if his obsession -- for what else can he call it? -- has made itself known to any other art students. But no one returns his look, bar from a young girl to his left. 

“You can use my tools if you want,” she offers, awkward. 

“No, thank you,” says Hajime, slowly.

He wonders if he can ask her how she can mold so confidently. How she can trust her hands to create that which he can only picture late at night, when isolation creeps in and he stops pretending like he’s not homesick for a person, rather than a place.

“That’s pretty cool,” he continues, “the way you … the way you’ve done the eyes.” 

She smiles. Says, “Thanks. They’re my favourite to do.” 

Hajime nods, dabbing at the sweat pooling around his collarbones. 

“Do you have a … favourite feature?” 

Aside from Ushijima, and his roommate, and the tentative connections he’s made in art class, this is the longest conversation Hajime’s had in weeks. 

“His nose,” Hajime says, absently, thinking about how he’ll handle summer this year. There’ll be no arm around his shoulder or whiny voice in his ear. Hajime will have to find someone else to split his ice poles with, or, heaven forbid, eat one alone. Not for the first time, he wonders if Oikawa is missing him too. Just a little bit, at least. 

He doesn’t wait around for her response. Oikawa’s smile is already unfolding itself in his mind, slowly, surely, and if he’s quick enough, he’ll make it cross-campus and back to his easel in time to capture that gentle curve. 

  
  
  


Hajime isn’t sure when his obsession starts, because, loathe as he is to call it that, it’s what it is. The sheer volume of art he’s made in Oikawa’s depiction over the past few months is scary. It’s all innocent things, of course. Hajime’s not a creep. 

He thinks it originally started as a way to try out new techniques. Oikawa has always been his muse, so what better way to practice than with someone whose form he knows so well? Except, it had quickly morphed into something else — a way to remember Oikawa and his vibrant expressions. From there, it’s become an ode to adoration. Something he’ll never admit out loud, of course. 

In the grand scheme, there aren’t as many depictions of Oikawa as he acts like there are. Multiple art books are filled with individual friends. In Japan, tucked into boxes up in storage at his parents home, there are books full of the entire Seijoh team. But none of them had more than a few hours of dedication. None of them are drawn with gentle swoops and careful, cultivated palettes. 

That, Hajime knows, is the difference. The way his hands betray him, in front of himself and in front of everyone. 

“Draw a series of eyes,” his tutor says. 

He draws two sets, and though they’re perfect, they’re too-detailed. 

“A love letter without words,” his tutor smiles. “Whoever they are, you must think them beautiful.”

He squirrels the practice away, a hot flush of embarrassment leaving him to curl in on himself. 

It’s not just Oikawa’s eyes, either, but his arms and his smile and his hands, as he tosses the ball _up, up, up._ Hajime tries to draw himself in some of these sketches, but he always remains as the outline in the corner, his time and energy spent curving Oikawa’s spine _just_ right. 

His roommate, Oliver, allows him to use the spare room as his studio. It’s a tiny thing and Oliver, a maths student, has no use for it. It becomes the one place Hajime allows himself to draw and paint freely. In class, he draws Makki, Mattsun, or his family instead. Now, the reverence in which he paints Oikawa’s lashes remains between him and the four walls of this haven. 

Sculpting is the one class wherein he can’t hide his feelings. Taking a summer semester does mean there are less students, yes, but it also means streamlined learning, and Hajime doesn’t have time to learn the contours and edges of anyone else’s face. Besides, if he wants a good grade, he has to provide something beautiful, and there’s no one who inspires such a feeling in him like Oikawa. 

It’s strange being so far away from his friends. Makki and Matsun demand he video-calls every second Saturday, so keeping up with them is easier than he’d hoped. Oikawa, however, isn’t quite as easy to pin down. Truthfully, Hajime knows little about what he’s doing abroad — beyond the basics. They try to manage at least one call a month, but as winter semester fades into spring fades into summer, those come few and far between.

They still text, of course, but even that has settled down. So, without Oikawa in any physical or virtual form, Hajime has to make do with what he has. And if that’s the sketchbooks full of shameful attempts stuffed beneath his bed, or the permanent ink stains scattered across his hands, then that’s what it is. 

Oikawa is hours away, yes, but how, Hajime thinks, how can I dare to miss him? How can I miss him when my notebooks, my drawings, my lungs, are full of him? So he keeps drawing and painting and remembering and if it doesn’t take the sting away? Well, that’s for him, and him alone, to know.

One morning, when summer is in full swing, and his semester is underway, Hajime realises he hasn’t talked to Oikawa in over a month. Sure, they’ve sent a text back and forth, but no real substantial conversation has happened in over four weeks. The knowledge that they’re drifting and that this might be it for them is enough to leave Hajime reeling. 

Already, his day is shaping up shit. So, when he enters the studio at seven in the morning, and is still there at seven at night, he feels a little bit justified in having a bit of a mental snap.

Clay Oikawa won’t do as he’s told. His face is perfect, his lips perfect, his eyes and his hair, but it’s _too_ perfect. Oikawa isn’t meant to be perfect. His smile is supposed to be more arrogant, one of his brows curves a little higher — and doesn’t Hajime’s heart just _plummet_ when he realises he can’t remember which — and his ears don’t stick out far enough. 

And his fucking nose just won’t sit the way it’s meant to. 

Sinking his fist into Oikawa’s face is surprisingly comforting. Hajime blinks down at the mess between his fingers. The top right of Oikawa’s face is concave, half of his nose pushed sideways. Hajime can’t turn this in, he realises, and he only has another two weeks before it’s due. 

But, he tells himself, it isn’t like he was getting anywhere with this anyway, so hung up on the details. 

Oliver looks at him weird when he comes home that night. The bags under his eyes have doubled, his phone is flat, his hair a mess, and he’s carrying a half-dented head. 

“Wow, he looks rough.”

“You should see the other guy,” Hajime says, tiredly, trekking his way into the study to plonk Oikawa’s clay mess down on a table in the middle of the room. He pushes aside the books that sit atop it, unbothered when they splay across the floor. 

For good measure, Hajime throws a rag over the top. The cloth does little to hide it, but at least Hajime can pretend like it’s not there. 

Three days later, the doorbell rings. 

“I had to ask _Ushiwaka_ to pick me up, Iwa-chan. Do you have any idea how long I debated just walking here?” The sudden burst of Japanese blindsides Hajime, as does the speaker. Oikawa shoves his way through the door, Hajime stepping aside on autopilot. His heart begins to pound. A whole year. A whole fucking year, and here he is. Waltzing in like he owns that place. Like he hasn’t just sent Hajime fumbling to check the locks on his ribcage so that his heart can’t escape.

“I thought to myself, am I really doing this? Am I really going to go to — here, take this — Am I really going to go to such extremes for _Iwa-chan?_ Iwa-chan who couldn’t even text me to let me know he wasn’t dead?” 

Hajime looks down at the bag that’s now in his hands. What the fuck, he thinks. Did I leave every paint can open and pass out from the fumes? I’m dreaming, right? 

“What kind of best friend would I be, hmm?” Oikawa is still saying, closing and locking Hajime’s door behind him, like he’s been here a thousand times; like he doesn’t live over six-thousand miles away. 

“So!” He claps his hands together and glances around the narrow corridor. “Don’t bother with a tour. I’ve seen it all on video. What I wanna know is, what have you done with my best friend?” 

Hajime drops Oikawa’s bag, unimpressed. In an incredible show of self-restraint, he doesn’t launch himself into Oikawa’s arms, even though his heart is saying _yes! Yes! Tooru! Home!._ Instead, he pivots and walks down the corridor, ducking into the kitchen to stare out the window blankly, just for a moment, to collect himself. Behind him, Oikawa is mumbling to himself about Hajime’s ‘terrible hospitality.’

“Well now I know it’s you,” Oikawa grumbles. Hajime turns to see him make his way through the kitchen towards the fridge. Incredulous, Hajime watches Oikawa rummage around and pull out some strawberries and the skim milk carton from the side door. 

“Nice, dairy-free,” Hajime hears him mutter. And then, louder, “No warm reception, no ‘can I get you a drink?’ and no ‘so sorry I made you sit in silence with Ushiwaka for just over an hour’?” Oikawa sighs, sadly, like there’s no hope for Hajime. “You’re still such a brute, Iwa-chan.” 

“Why the fuck are you here?” Then, more importantly, “and I doubt you sat in silence. Ushijima thinks it’s funny when you get mad, so he definitely tried to rile you up. Don’t lie.” 

Oikawa’s mouth opens and closes, like the fish Hajime once found in their middle school biology book. It would be funny, if Hajime wasn’t too busy gripping the counter so hard his fingers threaten to snap, just to stop himself from vaulting into those broad arms. 

“Well,” Oikawa huffs. “That’s …” He shoves a strawberry in his mouth, disgruntled. Hajime takes the chance to drink him in — lean arms, broad shoulders, the shadow across his cheeks and chin. 

Handsome. 

Here. 

Not his.

“Why are you here?” he asks again. 

Oikawa puts the strawberries and the glass of milk he’s somehow fucking procured down on the countertop.

“ _H_ _ow_ are you here?” 

Oikawa continues to make himself at home, hopping up on the counter as if he’s Hajime’s roommate, not Oliver. A fever dream, Hajime thinks. A really weird, really realistic, fever dream.

“Well, it all started when I booked a plane ticket to America. Kinda stressful, but I figured it would be cheaper during the week. Plus, I thought you were dead, so I didn’t want to wait.” Oikawa looks at him pointedly. Hajime’s ears burn. Not dead, just panicking. 

“Then, I contacted your roommate through Instagram. That wasn’t hard, considering he added me as a friend months ago. Then, I asked for your timetable, which he sent to me — why are you doing _art?_ You already know how to draw.”

“It’s an elective, it’s easy to do, it’s good practice, it’s fun, and it’s not just drawing,” Hajime lists. 

“Right,” Oikawa smiles, and it’s a little thing, somewhat indulgent almost. 

Hajime’s legs are threatening to give out at any minute, but he finds himself relaxing into the familiar back and forth. The way Oikawa eats his strawberries straight from the carton, and knows that the milk Hajime stocks is both low-fat and dairy-free, has him almost convinced this past year’s been a nightmare, and they really are roommates. 

“So after I thought you died and I was overcome with grief, knowing I had to prepare your funeral, I hopped on a plane over here. And because I thought you were dead, I couldn’t text you to pick me up, but I could text Ushijima. So I did. And … voilà!”

Oikawa throws his arms out either side of him. A megawatt beam seeps over his lips, pride etched across his face. Hajime has to stop himself from sighing dreamily like a fucking teenager. There is nothing dreamy about Oikawa, he tries to tell himself. Nothing dreamy at how he’s thrown you out of routine, looks half-dead, and has eaten all your fruit in two minutes flat.

“Iwa-chan.” 

Oikawa is not on the counter anymore. He’s close. Very close, in fact. 

“You’re really gonna make me do it myself, huh?” 

For one brief, breathless moment, Hajime almost expects Oikawa to kiss him. But Oikawa only regards him carefully, the sharp look in his eyes asking one very clear question, ‘are you ok?’. Hajime doesn’t know how to answer, but he does know what will keep Oikawa from asking aloud. 

“Well, since I’ve been a pretty bad host,” he starts, forcing himself to let go of the countertop, “I’d better make up for it.” 

Oikawa opens his mouth but Hajime winds his arms around Oikawa’s waist fast enough to have him snapping it shut again. He draws Oikawa in close to squeeze him, very tightly, waits long enough to feel Oikawa squeeze him back, and then pulls away. Oikawa smells like hand sanitiser and vaguely of Ushijima’s cologne. It’s unsettling. 

“Go and shower,” Hajime murmurs, turning away to retrieve Oikawa’s bags. “I’ll change the sheets so you can nap in my bed. Your bags are so dark you look like you’ve been punched.”

“Mean, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa cries. His fingers brush briefly across Hajime’s hip as he slips past, leaving a burning trail that tingles long after Oikawa has disappeared behind closed doors.

When Oikawa wakes up later that evening, he meets Oliver properly for the first time. 

“How did you get roomed with someone so smart, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa laughs, words heavy with his accent. 

Oliver grins and settles into the couch. Oikawa has sequestered himself half in Hajime’s lap, which is both terrible and wonderful for his heart. Oikawa smells like himself again, like the fig and pecan soap he takes everywhere. He feels even better, pressed into all the dips and curves of Hajime’s body. It’s comfortable and, as Hajime watches Oliver accept Oikawa with open arms, he’s once again grateful for his roommate.

“Maths and sports science are somewhat similar, I guess,” Oliver says, “but I don’t know anything about art. My idea of an elective is macroeconomics, not sculpting.” 

“That’s because you never learned how to express yourself outside of a calculator,” Hajime snorts. 

“I’ll express myself by throwing one at you,” Oliver threatens. 

Sat almost between them, Oikawa’s head twists back and forth like he’s watching a particularly exciting rally. Hajime’s thumb continues its idle stroking of his friend’s hip as he and Oliver toss insults at each other, and even though he’s sure some of what they’re saying is a little too fast for Oikawa to pick up, he’s following the conversation easily enough. 

“How many days are you here for?” 

“I leave Thursday morning.” 

“Have you ever been to America before?” 

Oikawa shakes his head. “Only Japan, Brazil, and Argentina.” 

“Impressive list,” Oliver grins and the sudden smack of his hands on their coffee table is enough to rouse Hajime from his dozing. 

“Jesus,” he hisses, automatically tightening his grip on Oikawa, who has fallen silent in the meantime. 

He pats Oikawa’s thigh in apology, stretching himself out a little. Oliver and Oikawa stare at him for a moment, then trade a look too quick and complicated for Iwaizumi to understand. He tugs his shirt down to cover the inch of belly he’s just made visible and waits. 

“We should get drunk,” Oliver says. “I’m expecting a booty-call from my ex, and you know I need to be two shots in to let myself make that choice.” 

Hajime, remembering the single time he and Oikawa snuck alcohol from Oikawa’s sister’s cabinet and got plastered in the kitchen at 2am, says, “No.”

Oikawa, undoubtedly remembering the same thing if the huge grin on his face is indiciation enough, says, “Yes.” 

Three hours later, the world is spinning and he’s not sure which way the bar is anymore. 

“Hey handsome,” a voice says, teasing. Hajime stumbles and blinks blurry eyes until they can focus. It’s Oikawa, laughing at him, eyes a little less cloudy, but skin still flushed from their drinking. 

“Where’s Oliver?” he says, realising, then, that he’s being guided gently out of the club. 

Oikawa wrinkles his nose and says very slowly, “a … boot-call? Booty? He’s with his ex.” 

“Fuck yeah,” Hajime crows, tossing his arms up. “Gonna get laid tonight. Least one of us is.” 

Hajime can’t read the resulting look on Oikawa’s face, but he thinks about it on their stumble home. He used to be so good at reading Oikawa’s moods, at knowing what he was thinking. Has the distance finally pulled the cloth far enough away that they can see the cracks below? Are they drifting? It’s my fault, Hajime thinks, whatever it is. It’s my fault for answering less. It’s my fault for not knowing how to move on from my feelings. 

“Iwa-chan. _Iwa-chan_ ,” Oikawa again. 

They’re out the front of someone’s apartment. His? He hopes it’s his. Hajime wants to sleep so badly. Maybe he can convince Oikawa to share the bed? Not for anything like _that_ , no, no he knows to keep his hands to himself; would never _dare_ to do otherwise. No, Hajime wants to share because his heart hurts. Because Oikawa travelled across the ocean and they’ve only hugged once. Because Hajime is a _coward_ who can’t just ask for things. 

“Where are your keys, oh my God,” Oikawa is mumbling, “I swear they’re in here somewhere. Should have remembered how useless you are drunk.” 

But despite his whinging, Oikawa must find the keys eventually, because the next thing Hajime remembers is the door swinging open and the bright hallway lights burning his eyes. 

“No,” he moans, shoving his face against Oikawa’s arm as he sags. 

“Come on, you baby,” Oikawa huffs, locking the door behind them. “I’m taking the couch. You’re too far gone to argue, anyway.” 

Baby, Hajime thinks. Call me baby for real. Hey, hey, Oikawa, you should do that for real. 

It’s a struggle to make it to the bedroom, because even though Hajime feels like the world is underwater, he’s still insistent on taking the couch. 

“We’re already here now,” Oikawa says, unlacing Hajime’s shoes. “So you may as well sleep here.” 

“Want you to take the bed,” Hajime pouts, wiggling his socked feet now that they’re free. God, his head is spinning. The world feels like a rollercoaster and he’s helpless to do anything but hold on. 

Oikawa looks at him for a moment, another of those unreadable conflicted stares. He’s beautiful.

“We’ll just share, Iwa-chan,” he says, eventually, squeezing Hajime’s knee. 

Oikawa disappears for a bit then, and when he returns, Hajime is slumped in the pillows, half-asleep and watching the door. Oikawa’s wearing long pyjama pants and a stretched-out t-shirt that used to belong to Matsukawa. 

Hajime smacks the bed beside him. 

“C’mere,” he says, “an’ turn the light off. Going blind.”

To prove his point, he wrestles with his pillow for a bit and pulls it over his head. Oikawa is laughing, he thinks, and homesickness explodes within his stomach. It’s suddenly _monumentally_ crucial that he can see Oikawa, so he shoves the pillow away just in time to watch Oikawa peel back the covers and slide in beside him. The light is off now, but they’re close enough Hajime can see him, and what he sees makes his heart ache. 

Hajime slides his hand under Oikawa’s and tangles their fingers, just so. Oikawa lets him. Later he’ll blame it on the alcohol, and not the way he suddenly feels like he could cry, but for now, he lets himself want it. Want Oikawa. Years of self-control won’t be broken simply because he’s a little drunk, but he can allow himself something small.

“I can’t get your nose right.” 

It takes a minute to realise he’s spoken. In the darkness, he sees Oikawa twist closer towards him. The gentle rustle of a sheet, and then Oikawa’s knee bumping into his own. Hajime resists the urge to tangle their legs. He’s already taken too much. 

“What?”

“Your nose,” Hajime says, curling up a little tighter. In the barely-there light of the moon, he can just make out the whites of Oikawa’s eyes, and the corner of his ear. He inches closer. 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, “you sound crazy.” 

With Hajime’s inhibitions on break, he doesn’t even try to stop himself from running a finger down the gentle slope. Oikawa’s nose scrunches up automatically beneath his touch and his friend’s breath catches, briefly. I surprised him, Hajime thinks. I should explain.

“Never get it right,” he murmurs, “not in pictures, not in paint, not in clay.” He swallows past something thick. It feels like his insides have been scooped out. “Not even when I’m dreaming.”

Beautiful, understanding Oikawa simply laughs a very soft little sound, before he says, “You really like my nose that much, huh, Iwa-chan?” 

“Miss it,” Hajime says, eyes slowly sliding shut. He pats clumsily at Oikawa’s face as he lets himself relax into the pillows. He can’t see much, but he can feel Oikawa’s cheek bunch under his hand as he draws back. He hopes Oikawa is smiling. He likes when Oikawa smiles. 

“Miss it all the time.” 

If Oikawa says anything, it falls on deaf ears, as seconds later, Hajime slips away, eyes too heavy to hold open any longer.

  
  
  


When he wakes up, the bed is empty. 

“What the fuck,” he says, stomach rolling. His head isn’t as bad as he’d thought it’d be, but he feels pretty terrible. He struggles to sit upright, the sheets pooling around his waist. It’s only the vague imprint of another body beside him that proves Oikawa was even there at all. 

Cheeks red, Hajime allows himself a moment to bury his burning face in his palms. He can’t remember much of anything after walking out of the bar, but he thinks he remembers touching Oikawa’s face. His nose. Can’t remember what he said, nor what Oikawa had, but he does remember the way Oikawa’s eyes had widened. 

“Fuck,” he repeats. 

Ten minutes later, he shuffles out of the bathroom. Feeling a little less like a corpse, he curls a stick of gum around his teeth and steels himself for a pretty awkward conversation with Oikawa. Except he can’t find him. He’s not in the kitchen, the bedroom or bathroom, and the lounge room is visible from all, so he isn’t there either. 

Oikawa’s phone is still on the counter, so he’s here somewhere. He wouldn’t, Hajime knows, enter Oliver’s room without permission. He’s nosy, but not that rude. 

This leaves only one option. 

The room at the end of the corridor mocks him. Hajime had known, really, the second he woke alone, that he wouldn’t find Oikawa anywhere else. This is his punishment for getting too comfortable. For daring to touch. He shuffles forward at a slow pace, like a criminal to his death. He has no excuse, especially because he knows Oikawa is waiting, so he doesn’t hesitate outside the door. 

At first glance, nothing seems overturned or touched. The vibrant canvases are still leaning against walls or stacked upon his easel. The paint-splattered cloth protecting the old floorboards is still bunched up in the corner. His torn sketchbooks are still spread in haphazard piles with no rhyme or reason. 

But that’s not the issue, of course. Hajime’s art isn’t just concealed to dark corners and draping sheets or closed covers. No, Hajime is stupid and sentimental and _in love._

Oikawa’s hands, Oikawa’s smile, Oikawa’s figure. Blue-tacked to the wall for reference. Countless pictures of Oikawa, with his nephew, or with Hajime, or Makki and Matsun, or the entire team; all of them, spread across a cork board above the desk. 

If Oikawa is Hajime’s home — is Japan — then this room is his shrine. And Oikawa stands in the centre of it, eyes wide and mouth agape. 

He’s surrounded by himself. Sculptures half-hidden, canvases abandoned, sketchbooks overturned. They pale in comparison to the real thing.

“I can explain.” A beat. Hajime’s shoulders slump. “I’m … practicing?” Not exactly a lie.

“Am I your muse, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa says slowly, the familiar little smirk creeping over his lips. The gentle, ‘it’s ok. Here, I’m giving you an out,’ that Hajime knows so intimately. 

Hajime thinks of California. Of its beaches and its people and its harsh sun. Hajime thinks of Japan. Of its cherry blossoms and its shrines and its winding pathways. Hajime thinks of home. Of its constant _Iwa-chan!_ and its hiccuping laughter and it's beautiful, cherished place in Hajime’s heart. 

Hajime thinks of home and he thinks of Tooru. And he thinks of Tooru and he thinks about how far Tooru came, on a whim, because Hajime sounded off. Because he wasn’t texting as many times in a day as he should have been. Because he was isolating himself. Was pining. Was letting himself drift. 

Hajime laughs, terribly embarrassed. Between one breath and the next, he makes his decision. 

“You have no idea,” he says, feeling like his heart is being reefed, little by little, up the gaping chasm he calls his chest, to pool around the base of his throat, waiting. 

“Iwa-chan.” 

Oikawa’s fingers brush Hajime’s wrist as he lets concern bloom. Hajime dodges him, ducks around his reaching hand and proceeds further into the room. There, by the cabinet, his goal. 

“Four days,” Hajime says, gruff, tearing his way through the sketchbook to page sixty-three. Four from the end. Countless pages littered his bin for days because the curves and angles of Oikawa’s face just weren’t good enough. He presses his art into Oikawa’s chest. 

“Four days it took me to remember how to draw your jaw.”

Hajime scoops up another sketchbook, half kicked underneath the desk in the corner. This one is easier to find — each and every page is the same muse, after all, and the best had been his first attempt. No amount of refining can make Oikawa anymore realistic, but still, something had tugged and nagged and bitten away at Hajime, until he’d decided that he would never get it right, so what was the point in trying?

“And this one?” he says, offering it up to Oikawa. Offering his frustrations, his late-nights, his heart. “This one took me over a week to figure out which eye had the fleck of green.”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa croaks. His hands are white-knuckled where they grip the worn spines of the books, but each brush of his finger down ink-stained pages is reverent. 

“This one? Three days. Your eyebrows. I never remember the arch.” 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa murmurs again, feet stuck to the ground like he’s rooted there. Like he’s Hajime’s newest and bravest attempt. Like Hajime got so sick of never having the real thing that his heart burst and bled until his desperate hands formed Oikawa, lifelike and breathing and existing, right in the middle of his room. 

Round and round and round the room. Until finally, the crown piece. The jewel. The pinnacle. The heartbreak. The final unturned leaf. 

“This one’s called Icarus,” Hajime laughs. It falls flat. 

Oikawa still hasn’t moved. Hajime’s fingers itch for his canvas and paints. This close, he can see the green in Oikawa’s left eye — can see where he’d gone wrong in shaping the shell of Oikawa’s ear. 

The cloth covering Icarus is torn away to reveal the messiest parts of Hajime. The sunken fist into the side of Oikawa’s clay face is painful. But, around that, there exists the gentle curve of a cheek. The soft tug upward of a lip. The edges and tip of a nose. That stupid fucking nose. 

“This is me,” Oikawa finally says, very, very quietly. Hajime strains to hear him. 

Standing in the centre of the room, with his heart in flesh across from him, Hajime is helpless to do anything other than smile. Brittle, ashamed, vulnerable. 

Equally quiet, he says, “Don’t be stupid, Tooru.” A breathless moment between them both. And then — then Hajime, reaching out his hand. Reaching for the sun; hoping his wings don’t burn. 

“They’re all you. They always are.” 

Oikawa doesn’t say anything for a very long time. A silent pillar in the room, he simply stares. At Hajime, then at the clay depiction of his face, then down at the cluster of sketchbooks in his arms. His Adam's apple bobs. 

What are you thinking? Hajime cries. Do you regret coming after me? Did I waste your time? Do you not like what you see? Me, striped bare, begging you to be gentle with me? 

Oikawa’s fingers wrap very tentatively around the books in his arms. He settles on the paint-stained armchair in the corner and thumbs through page after page. Occasionally, he pauses to run a finger down some part of his ink-crafted figure, and Hajime knows his hands will slowly stain charcoal, just like Hajime’s own. 

It’s just after midday now, so there’s no poetic beam of light through the window to cradle Oikawa’s face in its hands, but there doesn’t need to be. Oikawa has always been beautiful, if a little flawed, and it doesn’t take the sun illuminating his face to see all the lines and angles and bumps that Hajime adores. 

“Iwa-chan, this is a lot.” Oikawa is careful when he closes the final book, adding to the stack on the floor beside him. “This art is a lot, and this … this moment kind of feels like a lot too, and I don’t want to mess this up, you know?” 

Yes, Hajime does know. He’s just given up hiding what is, really, in plain sight. 

“I know you just showed me, Iwa-chan, but … I think I need you to tell me, too.” 

Oikawa’s hands twist themselves together. The lines of his shoulders might be soft and his face might be just shy of beseeching, but Hajime recognises the underlying flutters of his friend’s anxiety. 

I love you, Tooru, he thinks. 

“I don’t want to mess up either,” he says, instead.

When Oikawa smiles at him, it’s like Hajime’s eighteen again, standing across from the boy who promised to take them to the top of the world. He’s always been handsome. His time abroad has done nothing but amplify that. 

“Iwa-chan.” 

The way he says it makes Hajime think that maybe they’re on the same page, because he can almost taste Oikawa’s amusement. 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, standing up. “I’m supposed to be meeting my host-mother for lunch today, did you know?” He stops just short of Hajime and pushes his frames up his nose. Two eyes. One with a fleck of green, and one without. Both of them considering. 

“Like … on a video call?” 

“No, Iwa-chan,” and now Oikawa really is laughing at him, and Hajime can’t even be angry, because his heart is flipping in his chest and his hands are beginning to tremble and his breath is catching. “I dropped everything to come see you because I thought you had enough of me _,_ but it turns out you were just lonely. Right?” 

“I wasn’t lonely.” And I never have enough of you. 

“Fine. You were being self-destructive.” Oikawa waves an absent hand. “The point is,” he continues, “I dropped everything to come see you, because I care about you.” 

Watching pink crawl across Oikawa’s cheeks is the most wondrous thing. To create a palette of this moment, Hajime thinks, I would need rouge and carnation, eggnog and buttermilk, walnut and caramel and cinnamon. 

And, because Oikawa has always been the bravest of both of them, despite what others might think, it’s his hands that reach out first. 

“Hajime,” he says. “Tell me.” 

Hajime’s self-control takes a dive out the window to join Icarus up near the sun. He’s helpless to his desires. So, he reaches. Breathes, “ _Tooru_ ,” against full lips. 

Oikawa slides his fingers through Hajime’s hair, dragging his nose against warm skin. His mouth falls open easily, accepting the chaste slide of Hajime’s tongue along its seam, and the soft presence of it in his own mouth. His glasses press uncomfortably into Hajime’s cheek, but Hajime doesn’t even think about separating to remove them.

“You taste like gum, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa grumbles, nose scrunching up. He draws back enough to press his lips against Hajime’s jaw, starting a clumsy trail up towards the shell of Hajime’s ear.

“Sorry,” Hajime gasps, eyes sliding shut. Heaven, he thinks. I’m in heaven. Icarus wobbles precariously on its podium as Oikawa pushes him back a little, sucking a deep bruise into the side of Hajime’s sensitive throat. 

“‘S ok. Just bin the grape and buy blackcurrant.” A demand. One that Hajime knows he’ll follow.

“Sure,” he says, pliant, “whatever you want, Oikawa.” 

Hajime’s sun continues his path down Hajime’s throat, tugging aside Hajime’s shirt collar to press a kiss to the delicate skin there. Oikawa’s fingers are gentle as they cradle Hajime’s face. It’s hard to believe the same boy who shoved him face-first into mud over a decade ago is now chasing the taste of grape from his mouth. 

“You know, you still haven’t said it, Iwa-chan.”

“This is such a bad idea,” Hajime pants, instead. 

Oikawa’s back is a firm line underneath his hand, his jaw prickly against Hajime’s creeping fingers. He licks his lips, desperate for the lingering taste of Oikawa. Rich and heady. 

“Why?” 

Oikawa crinkles his brow and tenses a little, and that simply won’t do. Hajime holds him closer and tighter. 

“‘Cuz, now I know how you feel. How you taste.” His ears are burning something fierce. His heart smiles from its home in his throat and begins its steady crawl upwards, despite Hajime trying to swallow it down. 

“How can I ever stop wanting more?” his heart says, pushing its way through his lips. Oikawa captures it with his own mouth. Swallows it and takes it deep into his chest, where it belongs. 

“Hajime,” Oikawa whispers. His fingers shake against Hajime’s ribs and he scrambles to push his hands up underneath the cloth, to feel the smooth skin beneath. 

“‘Kawa.” Hajime’s throat is honey-slicked. “How can I stop wanting you?” he asks, desperate. How can I stop loving you?

Oikawa pushes Hajime back and then down. Down, down, down, tumbling onto the floor. A stray elbow threatens to topple precariously-stacked paint tins. Hajime’s fairly certain the hard press into his hip is from a paint roller he’d thought he’d lost. Icarus hits the floor with a dull thud. 

“You don’t,” Tooru gasps, pressing his lips to the junction between Hajime’s throat and shoulder. He scatters searing kisses across the skin there, smiling into every one of Hajime’s gasps. 

“You don’t stop wanting me,” Tooru says, tugging his shirt off. “Because I’ll never stop wanting you, Hajime. Never.” 

Miles and miles of supple skin to press kisses into. The first one sits above Tooru’s heart. The second, his shoulder. The third, his ribs. Then lower and lower still. Slowly, achingly. They have all the time in the world, after all. 

See, Hajime will never get the shape of Oikawa’s nose right and he’ll never remember which brow has the higher curve. What he will learn, however, is the way Oikawa shudders beneath his touch, the way Oikawa twists in his arms to kiss him, and the way he murmurs ‘Hajime’, so reverently, into the gaps between them. 

**Author's Note:**

> me, after my beta (thank you sm saffie!) told me this was good: well it's been sitting in your wips for over a month. get it posted and move on. 
> 
> this idea came from twitter, where a mutual and i (thanks shayne! this one's for you hehe) discussed visual artist iwaoi at length. [ here's the link!](https://twitter.com/SPORTANlME/status/1305870408365813762?s=20)
> 
> EDIT: saffie, the kindest human alive, has now drawn art for this fic! ♥️ you can find their incredible work [ right here!!](https://twitter.com/safflre/status/1335100539877679106?s=21) pls rt :)
> 
> moni, an ANGEL?!, has also drawn a set of comic panels based off this! you can find that beauty [ here! ](https://twitter.com/venusleo_/status/1340068064612601856?s=20) pls rt <3


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